


On display

by NohaIjiachi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is Petty and Proud of it, BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley can't help but be sappy at every occasion, Kidnapping, M/M, auction house what ifs, kink meme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NohaIjiachi/pseuds/NohaIjiachi
Summary: “Very well—“ the man with the moustache clapped once, the moment all the numbers had been distributed. “Let’s open the curtains— And please, try to keep your voice down!”The was the only warning the unsuspecting crowd received before the curtains were pulled on a side, and Crowley had to yet again gulp down hot, fiery rage, as the humans around him gasped in shock.They propped Aziraphale on some kind of throne, arms on the armrests and head lolling slightly on a side. A pair of golden shackles were very well hidden on the gold painted wood of the throne, keeping his wrists bound on it. They dressed him in white and gold, cloth carefully draped over him to create an elegant, otherworldly effect. Aziraphale’s ankles were also bound, feet not touching the floor and a gold chain dangling between them. His face and hair were the only parts free of golden ornaments, although Crowley could clearly see that they must’ve put make-up on him to smooth over the age lines of his corporation, and tousled his golden-white hair to look artfully curly and soft.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 481





	On display

**Author's Note:**

> [ So there was a prompt, and I filled it.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1006184#cmt1006184)
> 
> And then forgot to post it here as well. For months. Oooops? (；・∀・)

The mug.

Nothing was out of place, not a speck of dust sitting in the wrong spot. Crowley had almost left, confused and with the start of a full blown angry internal rant on the forefront of his thoughts, when he noticed the mug.

Not a thing out of place, not a sign Aziraphale hadn’t left of his own volition, but his white-with-angel-wings mug. It was on the floor.

Which, again, wouldn’t have been entirely strange. Crowley had seen Aziraphale too engrossed in a book to bother putting his mug away and just depositing it on the floor enough times, by that point— Except the mug was on a side, and it clearly hadn’t been empty when it ended on the floor, seeing as there was a brown-ish, sticky stain of dried cocoa on the carpet.

Everything in order. Except an Angel who disappeared without a word, and a mug that had once been full of cocoa on the floor.

Crowley took off his glasses, and got to work.

—

There were— Ways, one could trace someone else’s steps, if they wished to do so. Ways that did not work on occult -or ethereal- beings. But that had hardly been a problem.

The presences that Crowley could sniff had lingered long enough in the bookshop to leave faint traces. They tasted bitter on Crowley’s tongue, these traces, like greed and fear. And so he followed, an eye that did not exist in the realm of physical things guiding him along this ruby red trail of greed mixed with a golden terror. The Bentley purred in anticipation as they stopped by the mansion’s garden, where a good number of much more modern, sleek looking expensive cars were already parked.

There had been guards at the gates, but they could hardly do anything against Crowley. A snap of his fingers as the openly armed man glanced at him dubiously, and the gates were dutifully opened with a, “Of course, sir, you are indeed on the list! Welcome, we hope you will have a good night!”

If things were going to pan out as Crowley suspected they would, he would indeed have a good night. All the people present who did not come equipped with immortality? Probably not so much.

As he sauntered his way to the entrance, glasses firmly stapled on his face, a hand in his pocket and the other free to snap at a moment’s notice, he could see the rising eyebrows of the other guests that arrived along with him. Crowley rose an eyebrow back, and was just about ready to snarl, before sighing and giving in to the fact he needed to keep a low profile, until he could figure out the entire situation.

A snap, and the old couple of people who had too much money to really know what to do with looked away, forgot about him, while Crowley tweaked his appearance a bit. His favorite jeans and jacket swapped with the perfectly custom made black suit he kept in his flat for— Occasions, along with a crimson red shirt and a black tie. His hair lost in length, slicked back, as he stared at his reflection in one of the ground level windows. Now he looked like he could fit in better, for the time being. A rich snob with nothing better to do but attend a clandestine auction for occult items.

It was hardly the first time he did such a thing, really, although in the past he’d been doing it mostly for fun. Just to see which rubbish these idiots had gained, the ways they could so happily part ways with a good chunk of their wealth in exchange for a piece of trash they were convinced possessed some magical qualities.

There were real items, from time to time, but it was so rare— And, ironically, most of the time they were underestimated items, the onlookers not recognising the real value of what they were presented, and were often sold for what, to these people, was pocket change.

Humans. Always so funny, except when they went and kidnapped his Angel, that was.

Crowley had no doubt he got the hole in one as soon as he entered the ballroom that had been arranged as a make-shift action house, rows of chairs sitting under an obnoxious crystal chandelier, and a small stage by one of the walls, curtains currently keeping it hidden from prying eyes. He felt it loud and clear, the presence of an ethereal being— And not any ethereal being, but the one Crowley had honed and perfected himself in finding, over long millennia. Aziraphale was behind that curtain, and Crowley needed to take him out of there—

He took a deep breath, stifling the rage he could feel burning along his airways, as if he could breathe Hellfire at a moment’s notice. For how furious he felt at the idea of these foolish mortals attempting to sell a creature they had no right to even look at, he needed to keep calm. Even free of the shackles of having to explain his actions to Hell, even with his boundless imagination, Crowley couldn’t risk it. He had no idea of how they were keeping Aziraphale bound— It might take him too long to free the Angel, he could only stop time for a brief period— And he couldn’t be sure he’d be able to distract and erase everyone’s memories, not when he had no idea of how many humans there were in the buzzing ballroom—

So, recon first, hatching a plan to free his Angel later.

He walked through the ballroom, looking around. The area was surprisingly full, and surprisingly guarded, although far more discreetly than the gates. They blended in well, but Crowley could see the shiftiness from a mile away, the way these men nursed glasses of champagne they never drank from while scanning the room, exchanging brief, fleeting gestures with each other in a clear encoded mean of communication. There was a small orchestra currently playing in the corner and waiters gliding about to offer more drinks or some ridiculously complicated plate of finger foods that were being prepared by five star chefs, no doubt.

Crowley huffed, keeping his slow walk of the perimeter going as he took in the details. Aziraphale would’ve certainly enjoyed himself there, in other circumstances. If they had come just to laugh between themselves at the items being auctioned while stuffing their faces with free food and alcohol… That would’ve been fun. But fun was as far from Crowley mind as possible, as he casually walked by the stage, feeling the presence even stronger, if stifled. It was hard to tell if Aziraphale was conscious behind there… But if he was, he must be bounded really fucking tight, to keep his aura so suffocated.

His musings were interrupted by a rising of excited chattering along the orchestra trailing into silence, and he turned.

The man who had to be responsible for this was walking in, it was impossible to mistake the whispering of the guests, and even more impossible to misread the smugly satisfied look on his face. No doubt, this prick with a moustache that seemingly came right out the 1800s felt very satisfied by having caught a real, corporeal Angel—

“My esteemed guests!” his voice boomed unnaturally from all sides, cuing Crowley into the fact that he must be wearing a mic. “Welcome! I hope the party has been to your liking, so far— But I do know you must be excited for the show to start so, please, do go take your seats. We will soon begin!”

Snarling around a growl, Crowley sullenly made a beeline for the first row of chairs, that was already filling fast. There was a terrified looking young man with a suit too big sitting apparently alone, who blinked at Crowley with huge eyes as Crowley approached him almost stomping.

“Out,” Crowley ordered, flat.

“Um, sir, I’m here on behalf of—“ the young man started, voice trembling, and Crowley snarled again.

“_Out_,” Crowley ordered again, and the young man bolted. Crowley propped himself on the chair with a scowl, hands in his slacks pockets.

The room darkened, theatre lights pointed at the curtained stage. Crowley followed the steps of the man with the mic like a hawk, as he climbed up the short staircase to go stand in front of the red curtains, hands clasped in front of him as the buzzing of the crowd died down completely.

“I’m sure you must be curious about the— Urgency of my invite,” he started to say, voice loud and clear over the speakers. “And it fills me with pride to see how fast you’ve answered my call. This truly tells me my job as a merchant of the occult has been done well for all these years—“

Crowley scoffed, and a woman two seats over glared at him, fanning herself with an obnoxious feathery hand held fan. Crowley ignored her.

“—As explained by my invitation, I am currently in possession of a truly unique piece. I dare say this item is one of a kind, and maybe the only one that has ever been discovered in the entirety of human history,” the man continued, his voice almost trembling with glee. “I dare say that it is a priceless item, as well, but alas if one of you must come into possession of it, a price must be named.”

Crowley pursed his lips very tightly, almost shivering in rage in his seat. To hear this _fool_ talk about Aziraphale like that— To hear him refer to his Angel as nothing but another object to peddle, a little collection item to be kept in a display…

Oh, Crowley was going to have great fun making sure this man regretted every life choice that led him to this. He _so_ was.

“I have thought for a long time about this… And, after some deliberation with close friends, I have decided to set the starting price as one hundred million pounds,” the man said, immediately holding his hand up at the excited murmuring that rose from the crowd. “Now, now, I know it is rather— Exceptional for a price, and such a high one at that, to be proposed before the item is shown. But tonight is not to be a conventional auction, and I will give all of you some time to come admire the piece from up close, before we start the battle,” his mouth curled under his irritating moustache. “I have no doubt that, once you will all see, it will be a fierce battle. Now, before we show you tonight’s treasure I must warn you— Only a small amount of touching will be allowed. No loud noises nor crowding the item. My attendants will give you a number, wait for it to be called to come up the stage.”

Crowley launched a surreptitious look around. A good chunk of the potential bidders looked rather skeptical, but the others— There was a certain excitement in their greedy expression, and Crowley shook his head softly. People ready to part ways with what was surely going to be more than just a hundred million pounds, just like that… The worst kind of people, truly.

Now that he was retired Crowley could probably start to foment some kind of rebellion against these leeches. Actually, he was going to do it, as soon as he went home with a safe and sound Aziraphale. ‘Eat the rich’ sounded like a good slogan.

He was shook out from his darkly amused thought by one of the attendants, giving him a number. Crowley swapped it into ‘1’ without even looking. He’d have to go up there and try to figure out how they were keeping Aziraphale bound, and fast.

“Very well—“ the man with the moustache clapped once, the moment all the numbers had been distributed. “Let’s open the curtains— And please, try to keep your voice down!”

The was the only warning the unsuspecting crowd received before the curtains were pulled on a side, and Crowley had to yet again gulp down hot, fiery rage, as the humans around him gasped in shock.

They propped Aziraphale on some kind of throne, arms on the armrests and head lolling slightly on a side. A pair of golden shackles were very well hidden on the gold painted wood of the throne, keeping his wrists bound on it. They dressed him in white and gold, cloth carefully draped over him to create an elegant, otherworldly effect. Aziraphale’s ankles were also bound, feet not touching the floor and a gold chain dangling between them. His face and hair were the only parts free of golden ornaments, although Crowley could clearly see that they must’ve put make-up on him to smooth over the age lines of his corporation, and tousled his golden-white hair to look artfully curly and soft.

Pearly white wings were exposed as well, shifting minutely with Aziraphale’s regular breaths, hovering at the sides of the throne, primaries just slightly brushing the ground. They’ve put gold on the tip of his feathers, too.

Crowley had to admit, over the white noise of rage roaring in his ears, that the bastard knew how to show the merchandise well. The effect of the way they’ve dressed Aziraphale, along with the intense lights pointed at the bound figure, was striking, giving him a certain ethereal aura.

If only they had any idea, the idiots— If only they could really see the true beauty of Aziraphale, with all his little imperfections and his fussy mannerisms, with his messy hair and the lines on his face going deeper when he smiled— They’ve even dared to deface his wings. His beautiful, perfect wings, reduced to look so— _Kitsch_, with all that gold.

Maybe it was for the better, that all these fools were being presented with a silly imitation of an ideal, rather than the real Aziraphale. Crowley felt just a smidgen more prone not to rain revenge on everyone present, since they weren’t given the honor of actually observing who Aziraphale really was.

Moustache-guy circled the throne and Crowley noticed, not without a strong pang of worry in his stomach, how— Unresponsive Aziraphale seemed to be. He was awake, eyes open, but he didn’t follow the movements of the man circling him like a shark, nor moved a single finger to try free himself. Whatever they had done to him to keep him bound must be really fucking with Aziraphale’s awareness and his ability to perform miracles.

Not that Crowley ever suspected Aziraphale was willingly subjecting himself to this, it was obvious he must’ve been constrained in some ways, but it still looked— Horrifying.

“Yes, this is what you think,” the man said, stopping by one of Aziraphale’s wings, running his palm along the feathers. There was just a tiny twitch, but the wing wasn’t retreated. “I could hardly believe it myself, but— Following some good tips I discovered it, and the truth was revealed to me. This, my esteemed guests, is a real Angel,” he paused for dramatic effect, before continuing softly. “I do not know why it was stuck on Earth, and I did not have the time to ask— I had to defend myself, as it immediately attacked me upon being discovered. As you can see, I have won the battle, but it— Refuses to speak. Still, I assure you it is very safe to approach, as it is bound with my most potent incantations. Those will come for free along the merchandise, just so you know.”

Some tense little laugh rose from the crowd, as Crowley scowled up at the stage. Aziraphale attacking— Yeah, _right_. More likely, Aziraphale had tried to offer this bastard a cup of tea, before being forcefully bound.

The extremely heavy silence fell once more after that attempt at a joke, and Crowley could see how— Enraptured the potential-bidders looked, their greed stinking up the air like a dead skunk. There was a mix of dark feelings rising from the crowd, mingling in a mess that Crowley had to forcefully push aside to not let himself get distracted.

“Now, number one to five— Please, come up the stage. You will have three minutes to observe the item.”

Crowley slinked himself to the brief staircase, pointedly ignoring moustache-guy’s suspicious look. He also ignored the four other men that followed him, as he kneeled in front of Aziraphale to look him in the face. Aziraphale shown yet again no reaction, much to Crowley’s increasingly intense worry. His eyes were unfocused, far, clearly not properly perceiving what was happening around him—

“…Can I touch the wings?” one of the other guys who were circling the throne asked, and moustache-guy nodded.

“Very briefly, and gently, please,” he said, stepping by the other man’s side to guide his hand in a spot safe to touch. Crowley saw out the corner of his eyes as the guy shivered —even a normal mortal would feel in some way the power thrumming under those feathers, no doubt— and noted, unable to decide if he should feel more worried or relieved in a way, that Aziraphale flinched just slightly at the touch, his wing twitching softly.

“Holy— They are real,” the man whispered, clearly amazed. “This is real— How did you get your hands on an _Angel_, Mr. Atkinson?”

“One does not give away the secrets of the trade, my friend,” moustache-guy —Atkinson— replied genially.

Crowley stood silently, eyeing the shackles on Aziraphale’s wrist. There were _enochian inscriptions_ in the golden metal. This guy was no novice— A bastard, and a liar, and a con artist, no doubt— But he also must know what he was doing, to be able to string together enochian sentences strong enough to bind an Angel.

This was— Going to be much harder than Crowley hoped.

“It doesn’t look very— Responsive,” one of the other men noted with vague distaste, and Crowley had to call at every ounce of his self-control not to bite his hand off, when he put it under Aziraphale’s chin to tip his face up.

“I had to use particularly strong incantations to keep it calm for the auction, I’m afraid,” Atkinson replied readily. “To expose it in such a way, with a crowd— I would never risk the safety of my esteemed guests, Mr. James, but there will be— Less intense incantations I will give to whoever wins the auction, to give them the ability to interact with the item in a private setting.”

Mr. James hummed and sniffed, keeping his —_dirty, get it off, you fuck, stop _**_touching him_**— hand under Aziraphale’s chin, looking down at him the way one would look at a fish in a market, before finally letting go.

“Well, then, I’m afraid your time is up, gentlemen— Number six to ten, up to the stage, please!” Atkinson said, ushering them away as he spoke into the microphone. But, surprising Crowley, he followed them, putting a soft touch on Crowley’s elbow.

Crowley stopped.

“Can we exchange a word, mister…?” Atkinson said, trailing off with a tilted eyebrow.

“Shadwell,” Crowley blurted, not having a single intention of giving any of his current names to this vermin. Atkinson hummed, guiding him in a dark corner by the stage, mic turned off.

“Mr. Shadwell,” he said, looking at him with a keen gaze. “I’m afraid we haven’t met before.”

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley replied, glacial.

“And this is an event that is invitation only, so I must ask— Who invited you, Mr. Shadwell?”

Crowley did not even need to snap his fingers. He looked into Atkinson, deeper into his soul, dug into his memories—

“Ah, I see,” Atkinson said, immediately much more cheerful. “Mr. Fisher sent you in his stead! Such a shame he won’t be able to attend the auction first-hand, really bad luck to fall ill in this time of the year—“

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, stony. “A shame.”

“Very well, Mr. Shadwell, do bring my greetings to Mr. Fisher once you’ll get back to him. And hopefully you’ll be able to win the auction on his behalf! He could certainly use the presence of a powerful item such as this one…”

Crowley gave an agreeing grunt, and Atkinson went back up the stage, none the wiser.

Looked like he’d have to do this the hard way. Winning the auction was not the hard part, not when one possessed the ability of producing inordinate amount of money out of thin air—

No, the hard part was to now sit there, and watch as time went torturously slow, as all the potential bidders were given three minutes to inspect the ‘item’ up close. To sit there, and watch all these _parasites_ pawing at _his_ Angel, treating him like some kind of novelty object— Sit there, watching, and being unable to do anything to stop it.

Crowley closed his eyes, and thought of all the fun ways he was going to have his revenge once it’d be all over.

—

“I’m afraid we are closed,” Aziraphale said, with the steel he only reserved for potential customers in his voice.

The man entered anyway. He looked studiously well kept, with a striped suit dark suit and tie, a handlebar moustache adorning his upper lip. He was on the softer side, and gave the air of an oil baron, except those usually took no interest in Aziraphale’s little corner of the world. He seemingly ignored Aziraphale’s glare, as he closed the door behind himself softly.

“Mr. Fell, is it?” the man said, bright. “Sorry to intrude, I will take only a moment of your time. I have a business proposition for you—“

Aziraphale sighed. Another rich man who thought he could either buy or threaten Aziraphale out the bookshop, to snag the place for what would probably be yet another Starbucks or something. Putting his cocoa on one of the tables strewn about, Aziraphale approached with intent.

“I am hardly interested in business propositions, I’m afraid,” he said, cold politeness steeling his tone. “You’ll probably better go, instead of wasting your time—“

It happened so, so fast. Aziraphale got closer, to shoo the man away, and then his wrists were bound. He looked down at the golden shackles, the inscriptions glinting slightly as Aziraphale felt like all the air was being sucked out of his —unneeded— lungs. He let out a choked noise, falling on his knees, and gave a cry when his wings decided to present themselves in the physical realm, ripping his favorite button-up, waistcoat and jacket in one fell swoop.

“…So it was true,” the man said, breathless, as Aziraphale gasped for air on his knees. “Amazing— Absolutely amazing.”

When he felt a touch on his head, Aziraphale scrambled back, spread wings knocking painfully into the furniture. He looked at the golden shackles again, unable to properly focus and try to decipher the inscriptions— When he tried to miracle them away all he received in response was a painful thunder piercing his skull, as if someone plunged a long, thick needle into it.

He gave a choked cry, squirming on the floor, and then a hand was on his neck, pinning him down.

“Hush, now. The more you struggle, the worse it will be,” the man with the moustache purred, kneeling by Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale glared at him through tears, snarling. “Just relax. The binding will hurt you if you try to fight back, so relax, my little treasure.”

Aziraphale tried to take in a gulp of breath, to curse this man, to cry for help— But nothing came out of his mouth as he tried to scramble away from the man’s grasp. He flapped his wings in a fruitless attempt as the man dragged him up on his feet, only knocking them painfully against the tight corners of the bookshop once more.

“You want to be difficult, then, huh?” the man gritted through his teeth, jerked by Aziraphale’s flapping. He pushed, forcing Aziraphale down in one armchair, and rapidly kneeled, closing another pair of shackles around his ankles with surprisingly dexterous fingers.

Aziraphale moaned weakly, feeling immediately as if he was feverish, and exhausted. His wings flapped once more, but it was a feeble attempt. He blinked repeatedly, vision completely unfocused.

“There we go— Now, you’ll stay quiet and pliant for me, won’t you?” the man grunted, dragging him on his feet yet again. Aziraphale followed, unable to resist, dragging his feet. Words stopped making sense to him as he was half transported toward the door, and then a blanket was thrown on him—

In the brief darkness, as rough hands grabbed at him with little regards and jerked him around, Aziraphale succumbed to a forced unconsciousness.

—

He managed to regain a sliver of awareness, blinking blearily as he felt hands tugging and moving his wings. He weakly tried to pull at the bindings on his wrists, letting out a shivering breath.

“…This doesn’t seem right—“ he heard a voice say somewhere behind him, sounding fearful.

“Look, we have no responsibility. You get in, do what you must, and get out. That’s how it is in this line of work.”

“But—“

“Do you want your pay or not?”

“Yes, but—“

“Then stop asking questions, and _do your job_.”

Aziraphale turned slowly, as much as his bindings allowed him. He met the eyes of a young woman, who looked at him with a terrified, tearful gaze over his own feathers.

“…I’m sorry,” she whispered, so faint, and then carefully tugged at his wing as to plunge the tips of his feathers in a bucket full of golden paint. Aziraphale blinked slowly, and the darkness enveloped him again.

—

“…Will fetch a fine price, yes you will.”

A warm breath caressed his face, and Aziraphale tried to look up, a rough hand patting his cheek.

“Sir, the guests are starting to arrive.”

Aziraphale tried to focus his water-y vision, but it was so, so hard— And being conscious, even just barely, hurt _so much_—

Not being awake was so much easier, really, it was like not existing. Except he kept being rouse to attention as he tried to slip back into unconsciousness, voices around him, touches on his wings, his arms, his hair—

“—We have to get this—“

“Last time I lost that cursed dagger, but fuck me if I let this one slip through my fingers—“

“—When will we ever see another Angel? We have to win—“

“—This one is _mine_—“

_I’m no one’s_, Aziraphale tried to protest, but nothing came out of his mouth. He felt so slow, and sluggish, and couldn’t really see, only spots of colors dancing in front of his eyes. Everything hurt so much, he just wanted this to stop, wanted _them_ to stop— But the voices kept talking around him, and the touches kept coming, and Aziraphale collected what little strength he had and _pulled_, wings flapping uselessly, the bindings on his wrists not giving in, tight and uncomfortable and making him release a choked cry of pain as the inscriptions tugged him back with a punishment for that transgression.

“—Nothing to fear, Mrs. Stevens,” someone said near him, urgently but with cheer. “As you can see, it is very well bound. It won’t be able to escape— Here, let me fetch you a drink, you can go sit and catch your breath—“

Aziraphale sobbed quietly, the pain a clutch around all his limbs. There was no point, all these presences were there to gawk at him like an animal at a zoo, touch him as if he was some kind of toy— He could feel their longing and desire like worms writhing in his insides, a small sea of humans not seeing a living creature with a soul of their own, but rather a treasure to be possessed…

All, but one.

It took Aziraphale a moment to discern that single light giving an entirely different vibe in the mob of dark coveting. One presence that was— Worrying, and seething, and almost speaking to Aziraphale in a way human voices couldn’t—

_Hang in there_, the presence was saying, hurriedly, _hang in there, Angel. It’ll be over soon, I promise, and no one will ever touch you ever again. Please, hang in there—_

Aziraphale’s breath caught, and then he let out a small, relieved whimper.

Crowley.

Hope blooming in his chest, stifled under the constriction and the pain, Aziraphale allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness once more, knowing that things would soon be alright.

—

“One billion pounds,” Crowley snapped, causing the room to plunge into silence.

The bidding war had been predictably fierce, but it was starting to shave off people as the price rose. Crowley stayed silent through, pin-pointing those who seemed more than ready to give inordinate sums of money in order to come in possession of a real Angel—

_You- You will all regret this, later_, he thought darkly, before speaking loud and clear and bring the excitement of the increasing biddings to a screeching halt.

“One billion for Mr. Shadwell!” Atkinson said merrily from the stage, after the long silence. “That’s quite the sum! Are you sure Mr. Fisher can afford it, my friend?”

“Oh, I’m throwing in some pounds of my own. Birthday gift,” Crowley replied with a snarling smile, making some chuckles rise from the crowd. “You can check my card, if you want,” he added, producing the sleek black piece of plastic from a wallet.

“Oh, no need to do that,” Atkinson replied, although Crowley could definitely see the glint of greed in his eyes. “Very well— One billion, do I hear One billion and a hundred thousand?”

There was some grousing from the potential bidders, but in between Crowley’s steep offer and the subtle feelings of ‘_don’t you even think about it_’ that he was letting sneak through the legs of the crowd like an invisible snake, no one dared. Atkinson tried a couple more times, lowering the next potential offer, but in the end he gave in.

“Alright, then, goes to Mr. Shadwell for one billion pounds! Congratulations!” he declared, throwing both arms out like a magician at the end of a successful number. “Now, my friend, do follow my attendant to the back, where we’ll discuss the— Moving of your item.”

Crowley followed promptly, ignoring those who were trying to approach him, no doubt to ask who he was. It was clear enough that pretty much everyone in this room knew each other, and the entrance of a new, mysterious player that just ensured himself the most precious ‘item’ these auctions had ever seen must be such an enthralling novelty.

The silent attendant guided him along sprawling corridors and staircase, as he impatiently followed. He was running out of his already not very generous well of patience, and he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from snapping at the guy. When they finally entered in a cozy office, all mahogany furniture and books lined along the walls, a cheerful fireplace crackling in a corner, Atkinson was already waiting. He welcomed Crowley with a big smile, as if they were old friends, while a group of four, burly men slid in, transporting the throne Aziraphale was still shackled on and leaving it in the middle of the room with a carpeted thud.

“Let me congratulate you again, my friend,” Atkinson said once the four guys and the attendant left them alone. “Mr. Fisher will be undoubtedly pleased by this purchase. I still remember how fiercely he fought for that sarcophagus five years ago— An auction for the ages, that had been!”

Crowley gave a vague hum, slinking closer to inspect the golden cuffs keeping a still semi-unconscious Aziraphale pinned to the throne. It was indeed ancient enochian— Which had been stripped clean out of Crowley’s brain when he Fell, so that was going to be a problem unless he got Atkinson to undo them for him.

“Well, I’ll need hi— It off of this throne, to bring it to Mr. Fisher,” Crowley said, trying to keep his tone flat and business-like. “You are the expert, here, mind to get those shackles off?”

“Ah…” the smile stayed on Atkinson’s face, although it faltered a bit. “I— Understand your enthusiasm, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible— I will need some time to prepare other type of incantations, and we have to make sure the— Transaction goes through properly, you see…”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his shades. “You’ll find out there won’t be any need to wait,” he said, practical. “We can do the payment right away.”

Atkinson raised an eyebrow at him, but Crowley ignored him, whipping his phone out of a pocket. Just a nudge, and Atkinson ‘knew’ the money was deposited into an off-shore account -of course-, and blinked, back to his cheerful mannerism.

“Ah, I see!” he replied, still vaguely dazed by Crowley’s nudging. “Amazingly quick, my friend, I understand you must be very impatient to bring the item home—“

Crowley waited, tapping a finger against a thigh impatiently—

“But I’m afraid you will still have to wait.”

Crowley felt his frayed nerves jump up, incensed. “What for?”

“Ah, you see…” Atkinson started, placating. “I will need the help of some… Associates of mine, to shift the item into the new shackles— It will be a very dangerous operation, and—“

There had been a flash of something into Atkinson’s subconscious , when he said the word ‘associates’. Crowley squinted, lips pursed, as he focused on him.

“Associates?” he inquired, trying to bring the thought up once more and—

Oh.

“Ah, yes, they are— Professionals, you see, very good at staying under the radar, so I will need some time to—“

“Oh, those _bastards_.”

Atkinson stared at him, clearly startled by the venom pouring out of Crowley’s voice. Crowley snarled, taking his shades off, causing the man to jump.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Crowley reprimanded when Atkinson’s hand flew to his phone, making it disappear with a snap of fingers. “Not so fast.”

“What— Who are you?!” Atkinson panted, stepping back, eyes darting between the closed doors and the windows.

“You’ll find out that one might get burnt, if they keep playing with fire,” Crowley hissed with a manic grin, looming on the man. “And that it’s never a good idea to make a deal with a Demon, even less so with an Angel. Don’t think you can escape, it won’t work.”

Atkinson whimpered, trying to crash his elbow into the window and cursing, when it painfully bounced back, glass unbroken.

“What—“

“I think I really overestimated you— You are nothing more than a con artist, are you?” Crowley kept grinning maniacally, fully yellow eyes glinting. “To think I suspected you’d be able to handle enochian— But you do have a way to take those shackles off of him, don’t you? I can _see it_, don’t try to lie to me.”

There was very little the man could do— Or nothing, really, to try lying to Crowley. Crowley could see into his soul as if it were a body of crystal clear water.

“Now, you’ll go get those shackles off of him, and I might decide to spare your life.”

“As if!” Atkinson snapped, finding some bravery in his quivering insides. “I’m not an idiot! If I free that thing it’s going to want revenge—“

“That _thing_ has a name— Not that you will ever get to hear it, you _worm_,” Crowley hissed, encroaching on the man even more. “And just so you know— I have half a mind to just open your throat the instant you free _my_ Angel, but you are in luck, because he’s a very gentle soul. By all means your only chance of keep living is to free him, so he’ll intercede for your life. So, really, your choice between certain death and a very probable salvation, _my friend_.”

There was no need to imbue his words with how truthful he was being, because there was no doubt that Atkinson could see it in his furious gaze. He whimpered, working his throat, and finally gave a stiff nod. Crowley stepped back.

“Get onto it, then,” he said, fake cheerfulness in his voice as he stepped by Aziraphale’s side. “And don’t think to try do anything funny, I will watch _closely_.”

Avoiding his eyes, Atkinson approached, leaning down on one knee to start from the shackles on Aziraphale’s ankles. He muttered some enochian words in a way that made Crowley sure he’d just committed them to memory, rather than having any idea of what he was really saying, but the golden bounds dutifully came off, clanging on the floor. Before Atkinson could even think about trying to grab them, Crowley miracled them in his hand.

Aziraphale let out a choked noise, wings twitching and back arching, as if he was suddenly able to breathe. He blinked repeatedly, his eyes clearing as he confusedly looked around and then stopped on Crowley.

“C—“ Crowley put a hand on his mouth, not unkindly, silencing him immediately.

“Don’t say it,” he murmured softly, glaring at Atkinson who was watching them with eyes as wide as fish bowls. “Are you ok, Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked, eyes darting around and understanding clearly clicking in his gaze. He nodded, and Crowley took his hand away, gaining a small smile.

“I had better days, my dear,” Aziraphale said, roughly in the way humans sounded when they had a fever. He then turned, glowering at Atkinson. “Would you mind to free me properly?” he snapped, almost prissy.

Atkinson made a small noise and put only a single digit over the shackles on Aziraphale’s wrist, hurrying to mutter some more words. The shackles opened, Crowley immediately scooping them up as Aziraphale stood and rubbed at his wrists, pouting.

“Honestly, that was very rude,” he muttered, wings shaking just slightly as he stretched with a grunt. Then he squinted, as he noticed the gold staining his feathers, and with an eye roll he shook the wings again, the gold falling off like dried sand, before the wings disappeared. “So garish.”

“I don’t know, gold suits you,” Crowley teased him, unable to stop smiling. He was just so relieved to see Aziraphale right back up on his feet, unharmed. Aziraphale pouted at him, as he casually snapped his fingers. The make-up was lifted from his face, leaving him as he usually was, and the white-and-gold robes disappeared, leaving space to his usual slacks but a different pair of button-up shirt and waistcoat. Crowley tilted an eyebrow, as Aziraphale mournfully looked down at his chest.

“My clothes were ripped when _he_ forced me to manifest my wings,” he lamented, launching another glare at Atkinson, who was just standing there gaping at them. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to repair them, after receiving what amounts to magical damage—“

“Aaw, Angel,” Crowley moaned sympathetically, throwing an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I’ll take care of it, promise.”

Aziraphale smiled immediately at that, leaning into the touch as he blinked up at Crowley with an adoring gaze, making him chuckle.

“No need to lay it on thick, you spoiled little thing, I already promised,” Crowley said, amused, before turning toward Atkinson and tilting an eyebrow. “Now, what do we do about him?”

Aziraphale shifted back into a glare, but then sighed. “Memory wipe?”

Crowley ignored the mouse-being-stepped-on noise that Atkinson made, “It might take a bit more than that, Angel. Turns out this idiot was helped along by forces a bit higher than him— And lower, I might add.”

“What?” Aziraphale immediately asked, frowning. “You mean—“

“I think it’s time you tell us a bit about the fellas that helped you along, huh, mate?” Crowley said, coldly ironic, staring down at Atkinson with a still fully yellow gaze. “They gave you those shackles and told you where to find an Angel— And what else?”

“I—“ Atkinson croaked, frozen on the spot. “I don’t— Know them. They found me, told me I could make more than enough to retire from the scenes— And I’m not as young as I used to be—“

“Focus!” Crowley barked, snapping his fingers repeatedly to command Atkinson’s attention. The man went slack-jawed, eyes glassy, but Aziraphale did not protest about it, this time. “Don’t give a flying fuck about your life story! Those people, who were they? What did they want?”

“I don’t know their names,” Atkinson started with the flat voice of the hypnotised. “They just shown me they could do— Things. And I believed them when they told me I could find an Angel in Soho—“

“What did they look like?”

“One was a tall man, fit, very well dressed. Could’ve looked like a CEO if it hadn’t been for the purple eyes—“ Aziraphale let out a small noise, but Atkinson kept going. “The other was shorter, messy black hair, very— Snappy. They had a hat shaped like a fly, for some reason—“

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Aziraphale muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So, what, now they are teaming up to bother us?”

“ ‘M afraid so, Angel,” Crowley sighed, patting his shoulder. “So, did they want something in exchange for this tip they gave you?”

“No, they just— Wanted the Angel out of the way,” Atkinson replied, still flatly. “Gave me the shackles and taught me how to use them— Told me they’d be in contact when I’d need to put different bindings on the Angel.”

“So, these—“ Crowley shook the golden objects he was still holding in one hand. “You know how to use them— And will they still work after being taken off?”

“Yes, as long as they are put on an Angel.”

Crowley turned, finding Aziraphale already looking at him with a mischievous little tilt of his eyebrow.

“Well, I suppose we are thinking the same thing,” Crowley slid the arm off of Aziraphale’s shoulders, only to offer his hand palm up. “Help me out?”

“With pleasure, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, immediately putting his hand into Crowley’s, entwining their fingers.

—

“…So, I might’ve done a sneak.”

Aziraphale blinked over the rim of his mug, an open softcover book that must’ve seen long years of use going by the cracked spine propped against the fruit bowl.

“What could you mean?” he asked, already amused.

“Felt the need to go check downstairs— I was very sneaky, don’t look at me like that,” Crowley interrupted himself in front of Aziraphale’s reproachful and worried look, before continuing. “No one saw me— Anyway, it happens sometimes, that feeling. Especially if one of the big bosses is particularly pissed. Guess who was pissed— You get three chances, and the first two don’t count.”

Aziraphale relaxed visibly, an almost wolfish smile pulling at his mouth. “I guess our little trap worked, then.”

“Ooooh, dear ol’ Beezy was _seething_,” Crowley cackled, dragging the kitchen chair by Aziraphale’s side to prop himself down, resting his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Apparently it took ‘em two weeks to crack the code and free Gabriel. I’ve heard through the grapevine that upstairs is even less pleased about this than Beez was.”

“Good,” Aziraphale declared, taking a studious, snobby sip out of his mug. “Maybe that’ll teach them a lesson or two.”

“I do hope so,” Crowley agreed, leaning even more into Aziraphale, almost half-draped over him. “I also went to pick up a certain thing…”

A small snap, and a silver box appeared on the table, between Aziraphale and the book. Aziraphale put down his mug, tugging the box toward himself before asking softly, “For me?”

“Who else?” Crowley replied with a toothy smile, gently nudging his shoulder against Aziraphale’s ribs. “C’mon, open it.”

Aziraphale did a little excited wiggle, cheeks pinking slightly, before obeying and opening the box. He released a little gasp, almost reverently putting his hands in, to raise the waistcoat out of the box.

“Oh, Crowley—“ he exhaled, so very softly, as his silver eyes run over the familiar shape of the clothing, back in one piece. Aziraphale rubbed his thumb over the cloth, blinking repeatedly. “You actually— Oh, my darling, this is simply marvellous—“

Crowley was still grinning dopily. “Had to speak with about a thousand tailors and cheated a bit by summoning the right fabric— I’d imagine that some poor sod in the 1800s must’ve been very confused by the disappearing material.”

Aziraphale chuckled, but it was almost watery. He let out a soft little breath as he held the familiar piece of clothing to his chest, and then put it back down in the box. Then he turned, tilting his head on a side to nuzzle against Crowley’s hairline, placing a small kiss on his forehead.

“You know, maybe it had been worth it to go through all that wretched affair just for this,” he murmured, sounding so warmly happy. “This was a most grandiose gesture, my dear.”

“Aaah, don’t go get all sappy on me, now,” Crowley grumbled, tipping his face down and hiding his smile against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It was nothin’.“

“It most certainly was not ‘nothing’,” Aziraphale replied with mirth, pushing another kiss on the crown of Crowley’s head. “Thank you, my love.”

“Fine, whatever, you’re welcome. Can we go annoy the seagulls at the beach, now?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Aziraphale chuckled, and they shifted with the warmth of familiarity as they put away the cutlery Aziraphale used for his breakfast, to be washed later, and put on slippers to go out of their cottage in the South Downs, directed to the beach hand in hand.

They won’t be bothered for a while, there. Probably.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/NohaVale)


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